


Worlds Apart

by JezebelGoldstone



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (well kind of; really only in that it's about Native Americans), AU, Alternate Universe, American History, Anal Sex, Angst, Drama, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Historical America, Kissing, Legends, Love Declarations, M/M, Native American, Old West, Romance, Sexual Content, Thanksgiving, True Love, handjobs, lots and lots of kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JezebelGoldstone/pseuds/JezebelGoldstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cabin was lit only by the dying fire, as Sherlock wasn't expecting visitors and hadn’t lit a candle or lamp. He intended to; as soon as he ushered John inside he gestured John over to his chair and reached for the candles when John whispered no, please don’t, it’s better if we can’t see.</p><p>Sherlock said it again. "Stay."</p><p>"They need me. I can't." John was looking at his knees. "Come with me."</p><p>Sherlock closed his eyes, reminding himself of pounding hooves and the tang of gunsmoke in the morning fog and imagining it was John being chased down by the cavalry. He said, "I can't."</p><p> </p><p>In the midst of the American Old West, all John and Sherlock want is to stay together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir A C Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. Story is my own.
> 
> Everlasting thanks to Miyako Toudaiji for the wonderful beta. This wouldn't have a chapter two if it wasn't for her, so anyone who doesn't want this to end at chapter one owes her a thank you. ;) Also, please be aware that this story is fully written and beta'ed, so the rest WILL be posted next week.
> 
> Anyone reading any of my other stories, an important note: My life has been incredibly chaotic lately (new job, still looking for a new place to kip, dealing with taxes and friends getting married etc. etc. etc.). I haven't left the fandom, and I most certainly have NOT given up on ANY of my stories. Any story of mine that's not done yet will be completed eventually. I actually have all of them planned out already, all I need is the actual TIME in which to write them. So, I'm sorry if it feels like I've been doing any abandoning. I will finish all of them and add some new ones besides, I swear. :)

* * *

_The pain within will never lay to rest._

_Wandering on Horizon Road,_

_Following the Trail of Tears,_

_Once we were here. . . ._

-Nightwish, Creek Mary's Blood

 

* * *

 

“When are you leaving?” asked Sherlock.

“Tomorrow,” said John. “Nightfall.”

Neither spoke.

His name wasn’t really John, Sherlock thought. That was just what Sherlock started calling him, ‘Johnny,’ when he got sick of the long string of syllables that really made up the native’s name. He hadn’t liked ‘Johnny’ much, insisting that if Sherlock was going to shorten his name, he ought to go all the way and make it a single noise. ‘John’ hadn’t gone over too well, either, until Sherlock had dregged up some half-remembered facts about St. John of the Cross, poet and martyr and sinner and saint. That seemed to delight John, his John, and the name had stayed.

No. Not ‘his John.’ Not ‘his’ anything.

“Nightlocks wanted to come, too,” John said. He was whispering, as though anything louder would make everything. . . real. “I couldn’t--- I didn’t want--- I had to wait until she slept.”

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak. ‘Nightlocks’ wasn’t her real name, either. She was named for her hair; thicker and longer than had been seen for two generations. Her name reflected this, though the first time John tried to translate her name he hadn’t understood why Sherlock couldn’t stop laughing. No matter how jet-black and thick her hair was, ‘Hairy’ was hardly a flattering name for a lovely little girl of twelve. Once John had better explained the meaning of her name, Sherlock had rechristened her ‘Nightlocks’ instead. John’s face had gone funny when he said it, but the little girl had laughed with delight, repeating the incomprehensible syllables over and over to herself, and apparently whatever his initial misgivings had been, John had gotten over them.

They didn’t look like siblings, Sherlock thought for the thousandth time. He was trying, desperately trying to think of anything other than what was happening, anything but what John had come here to tell him, _anything_ other than the fact that. . .

Nightlocks and John didn’t look like siblings, Sherlock thought for the thousand and first time. While they both had the dark eyes and iron-clay-colored skin of their people, John’s hair wasn’t black. It was closer to brown, light brown, bleached coppery gold by long exposure to the sun. After badgering him about it for days, John had finally relented to Sherlock’s curiosity and confessed that his grandmother had been a pale-faced woman. A settler, not a native. Her looks appeared to have no strong influence on anyone in the family other than John. Certainly Nightlocks looked like a pure-blooded native.

Sherlock glanced at John, the first time he’d looked at the other man since he’d sat down and said. . .

The cabin was only lit by the dying fire, as Sherlock hadn’t been expecting visitors (by which he meant John, since John and very rarely Nightlocks were the only people who ever visited) and hadn’t lit a candle or lamp. He had intended to, as soon as he’d ushered John inside, had gestured John over to his chair and reached for the candles when John whispered no, please don’t, it’s better if we can’t see.

Sherlock said it again. He’d said it before already, but the word wouldn’t remain behind his teeth. “Stay.”

John looked at his knees. “I can’t leave Nightlocks. And I’m one of the only young men left. They might not make it without me. They need me.” He did not say, ‘You know this.’ He did not say, ‘I don’t want to go.’ He did not say, ‘Like I need you.’ Sherlock wondered if any of that was true.

John said, “Come with me.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, reminding himself of pounding hooves and the tang of gunsmoke in the morning fog and imagining it was John being chased down by the cavalry. “They’d notice I was gone. It’d take half a year for them to notice, and a little while longer to notice that your tribe had gone, too. Less than a year and they’d figure it out. My brother would not rest if he thought I had been killed or captured. Nothing I could say or do would convince him I had done this of my own volition. A year and they’d start hunting us.” He did not say, ‘A year is not enough.’ He did not say, ‘I cannot be the reason you’re killed.’ He did not say a lot of things.

Sherlock was sitting on the bed, facing John, watching the firelight glint in his hair and cast his eyes into shadows. The man sat leaning forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders more stooped than Sherlock had ever seen them.

Sherlock wanted to ask why. He wanted to ask where, and how. But he already knew the answer to the first one, and the second two didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, not without John.

He wanted to say something else. He wanted to say again, ‘Stay,’ but the word caught in his throat.

John looked golden, the firelight picking him out against the black shadows flickering behind him. Sherlock looked away.

“We have a story,” John said quietly. Sherlock closed his eyes, unable to understand or control the reaction happening in his chest at the sound of John’s voice, the voice more familiar to Sherlock than anyone else’s, about to tell him a story like he had so many times before. “There was a man and a woman, once, who lived on the shining isle in the North. One night the man was stolen away by the demon in the lake, dragged beneath the waves, and was never seen again. In her grief the woman vowed that she would destroy the demon’s home, destroy the comfort of his heart, even as he had destroyed hers. She spent the rest of her life trying to fill the lake with rocks, to make the water rise and trickle away.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

Voice measured, no hint of tremor or stutter or hitch or sob, John kept talking.

“This was many generations ago. The lake is still there. But every time anyone goes to the isle, we always go to the lake and cast in a stone. We will not stop until the lake is dry.”

Silence.

Sherlock was reminded of last spring, half a year ago now, a whole year after he had first met John, when there had been a windstorm. There was no rain, no snow, the clouds moving across the sky so fast that sometimes they would blanket the world from horizon to horizon, and sometimes nothing could be seen but clean, clear blue. And the entire time the wind had raged, blowing so hard Sherlock sometimes had difficulty standing upright. He’d lain inside that night, listening to the storm raging in the blackness, rushing around the pine trees outside until he feared they would break. It wasn’t quite right, but it was the closest metaphor he could think of for what he felt just then beneath his ribs.

All at once it was too much. It was too much to just sit here and let this happen, too much to watch John remain quiet and grave and as still as clear water, too much to keep thinking ‘never again, never again, never again.’

“That is so _stupid_ ,” Sherlock snapped, standing up so fast John flinched. Sherlock ignored him, pacing up and down the small bit of floor available between the table where John was sitting, the bed where Sherlock had been, and the hearth. “I don’t know why you keep telling me these idiotic stories, John. It’s not like any of them can possibly be _real_. Why are you so moronic? Why do you keep torturing me with this sort of inanity? Do you honestly think your people can hold a grudge for generations? Impossible; you don’t even have a writing system, how could you actually remember something that long? What’s it supposed to _mean_ , that when one of you make some sort of insane promise to some ‘water demon’ that doesn’t really exist the rest of you get a chip on your shoulders?” Why would John talk about some stupid legend at a time like this? It was so off-topic and a pathetic attempt at poetry and so very like John and so familiar and. . .

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock said, standing in front of the fire with his fists clenched. He meant to say, ‘No one can replace you.’ He meant to say ‘I don’t understand.’ He meant to say, ‘Stay.’

He tried to say John’s name again, the single stupid syllable sounding even more broken than before, but it didn’t sound like a word. He had to--- there had to be something, there had to be _something_ that he could do, that he could give, that he could say that would keep John with him, something, _anything_. . .

Sherlock whirled and saw John standing, his face twisted with--- with what? Who knew? Did Sherlock stand any chance of reading him at all?--- and couldn’t help himself. He meant to argue, he meant to cajole, he meant to say again ‘Stay,’ but instead he crossed the distance between them in a single stride, cupped his hands around John’s face and kissed him.

It was barely enough time to register how firm John’s lips were before Sherlock began pulling back. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to see the look on the other man’s face, turned his own face away.

Before he could release his hold John’s hands were suddenly gripping his arms very, very tightly, keeping him in place. Sherlock dared to look. When he saw John’s expression, Sherlock thought he could actually _feel_ his heart snap in two, like a twig cracked underfoot.

“What the story means,” John whispered, “is that I will never understand how to stop loving you.”

They stood for a moment in the middle of the tiny, dim cabin, staring at each other and letting this new reality settle in around them. This reality in which they loved each other. This reality in which John was leaving tomorrow, at nightfall, was heading west and would never come back.

Awed, Sherlock whispered, “Your eyes are _blue_.”

John laughed, one of Sherlock’s favorite sounds in the world, though this laugh sounded painful. And then they were kissing again, John’s hands moving to the back of Sherlock’s head to drag him down and press their lips together. Soon their arms were around each other, clutching at hair and shirts, as though if they pressed close enough they would stick together and never be parted.

John’s mouth was moving against his, both of them moving their jaws as though they were eating each other, sucking at lips and tongues and teeth and saliva and breath, sloppily trying to devour one another. But it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t working, and Sherlock took both his hands away from John’s shoulders, trusting John’s grip on his hair to keep their lips together while Sherlock roughly shoved his hands under John’s shirt, the deerskin on the back of his hands not nearly so soft or warm as the skin of John’s back.

John groaned deep in his throat, the vibrations making Sherlock’s lips buzz and his eyes cross behind his lids, and then John began tugging at Sherlock’s shirt, working it up his chest until it was rucked up under his arms. He fiddled for a moment, blindly, with the ties at Sherlock’s throat before pushing Sherlock away by the shoulders. Sherlock tipped forward, every thought consumed with John, John, John, John, and there was barely enough time for John to rip his shirt up over his head before Sherlock was upon him again.

John’s hands were warm on his back, his shirt oddly rough against the exposed skin of Sherlock’s chest, and John wouldn’t go outside on a cold night like this without his clothes, so his clothes had to go, had to come off _now_ , because John could never, ever leave. . .

Sherlock made a broken noise, something choking at his throat, and John held him tighter and whispered, “I know, I know, shhh, it’s all right, I know. . .” against his lips until Sherlock kissed him again. He managed to stop kissing John’s lips long enough to suck at his neck while he pulled his shirt up, running his lips over John’s raised arms as he tugged the shirt over his head and promptly forgot about it.

They wrapped their arms around each other, kissing like they were drowning without the other, the firm press of bare chest against bare chest causing each to groan and tighten his arms. Sherlock could feel every bit of John’s torso against his own; every hair pressing into his skin, the warm circles of his nipples, the dips and ridges and planes of every rib, every muscle, the flat sternum and curved pectorals, the muscles of John’s back shifting deliciously beneath his forearms and palms. . .

There was a moment of vertigo as they tipped backwards, John having taken a step forward to press Sherlock’s knees against the edge of the narrow bed, and down they went, John atop him. Limbs flailed as the remaining clothes were torn off while they did their best to keep as much contact as possible, lips and hands never leaving each other, pressing each bit of skin together as soon as it was exposed.

And then the clothes were gone, everything, _everything_ was gone except for John, John, John; John atop him, John’s weight pressing down into him, John warm and alive and real and here, John’s arms around him and John’s lips on his and John’s legs clasping his own and John’s body undulating against him and John’s cock sliding against his thigh and John’s hip pressing against his own cock and John’s voice making those desperate noises and John’s scent filling his nose and John’s muscles clenching as he tried to hold Sherlock tighter, tighter, _closer_ , more.

There was so much there, so much John to see and taste and hear and memorize. Because Sherlock did have to memorize this, had to remember perfectly every detail: the precise note John’s voice hit when Sherlock gripped his arse with two hands, the scent of the sweat pooling on the back of his neck, the feeling of his hair against Sherlock’s forehead as they kissed, the smell of his cheek beneath Sherlock’s nose, the heat of his cock hard against Sherlock’s hip, the scratch of his toenails against Sherlock’s calves, the unique bump and curve of each individual vertebrae. . .

It wasn’t enough. It would _never_ be enough. Their skin was just as much a barrier as their clothes had been, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to strip the pair of them like dead deer, to peel of their epidermises and rearrange their bones until they lay next to each other, sew up their muscles and tendons until their very veins were so entwined there was no way to tell who was who.

Even this, Sherlock suspected, even this wouldn’t be enough.

John began kissing the skin beneath Sherlock’s eyes desperately, and when Sherlock realized why he was doing so he reached up and wound his fingers into John’s hair and dragged their mouths back together, plunging his tongue behind John’s teeth immediately. When John was panting for breath Sherlock withdrew his tongue but left their lips pressed together as he whispered, “More, John, more, _more_. . .”

His wrist was seized harshly in John’s hand, a kiss was planted on his palm before two of his fingers were sucked into John’s mouth. John sucked and slicked and licked at them while Sherlock clenched his legs around John’s waist and ran his free hand up and down John’s back and kissed every bit of his face he could reach.

His fingers were removed from John’s mouth, which immediately latched onto the side of Sherlock’s neck, while John’s hand held his wrist and guided his fingers behind himself and around his hip. Sherlock had no idea what he was doing, and was too busy trying to remember precisely how John felt at each point of contact to wonder about it. John knew what to do.

Sherlock didn’t realize what John wanted until John pressed the tip of one of his fingers against his hole. Sherlock paused for a moment, but only a moment. He’d never considered that before, but. . . John was the one who had suggested it, so obviously he wanted it. And anything, any little bit of contact, _anything_ that would bring John closer Sherlock would do.

He continued kissing and sucking every bit of John’s skin he could reach while both his hands made their way down to John’s arse. One hand worked his cheeks open, then held them apart as his wet fingers began massaging the puckered hole. John bucked against him frantically, Sherlock biting at his lips and chewing down the moans John thrust into his mouth, his fingertips kneeding the muscle to pliancy. John cried out and wrapped his arms around Sherlock so tightly that he couldn’t _breathe_ when he finally slipped one fingertip inside.

John writhed and clutched at him as Sherlock gently worked him open, though he kept a firm grip on John with his legs and his mouth never stopped working. Sherlock kissed John’s temple over and over again, always finding a new scent or taste in John’s skin or beneath his hair, when John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck. He continued undulating beneath John until he felt a wetness on his shoulder; he only moved his free hand from John’s arse to pull his hair until John raised his head enough for Sherlock to lick the moisture away, saying not a word as to its origin, while John’s face twisted and flushed.

Then John’s eyes opened, deep and hazy and frighteningly blue, locked on Sherlock’s own, and Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheek and still his hips to prevent himself from coming right then. “Sherlock,” John breathed, one hand sliding away from where he was no doubt working bruises into Sherlock’s shoulders to cup the side of his face. “Sherlock, _please_. Please, now, now please now, Sherlock, _Sherlock_. . .” He began pressing kisses into Sherlock’s mouth between words. Sherlock could do nothing but nod.

John shifted, lips and teeth trailing down Sherlock’s neck and sternum, and Sherlock’s arms were slowly, cruelly loosing their hold on John as he slid down Sherlock’s body. Even knowing what he was doing, even though he knew John was going to wet his cock so he could breach him smoothly, even being fully cognizant that John wasn’t leaving, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from crying out, “No, no, no. . .!” sitting up enough to reach out for John like he was all that kept Sherlock from dying. John immediately launched himself back up Sherlock’s body, tongue thrusting into his mouth and arms wrapping around his shoulders before his weight had even settled.

But Sherlock could feel how full John’s cock was as it ground against his own, shivery little shoots of pleasure feathering up from his groin into his stomach, and Sherlock kept his hold on John with one arm as he sat up a little and groped frantically about on the lowest shelf above the bed, until he found the small jar of slippery ointment he kept there for minor cuts and muscle strains.

He pressed the jar into John’s hand and John shifted again, though this time he didn’t try to leave Sherlock. Instead he rolled to the right, lifting his lower body away from Sherlock’s hips and bracing himself on his right elbow. He craned his head to look down the length of their bodies while Sherlock sucked at the exposed side of his neck. Then John used his left hand to tip the jar, dribbling the ointment over Sherlock’s aching cock, the sudden jolt of cold liquid enough to make Sherlock open his eyes and watch John’s hand.

It was a small jar, and John was pouring it rather liberally. Sherlock was about to tell him to wait, to save some for later, for next time---

Sherlock yelled, desire and pain spiking behind his sternum so strongly he couldn’t help but cry out, burying his face in John’s shoulder. John put the jar down somewhere, and then his arms were blessedly crushing around Sherlock again, their cocks slippery and trapped between them as they rolled until John was on his back, limbs wrapped around Sherlock entirely. Sherlock pulled back for a moment, watching John’s face as he reached between them to position his cock at John’s entrance, watching John’s brow furrow and his mouth gape open and his eyes desperately seek Sherlock’s as he rolled his hips slightly, the very tip of his cock just barely pressing against the ring of John’s entrance before withdrawing again.

John had closed somewhat after Sherlock had removed his fingers, so Sherlock used the blunt head of his cock to massage John’s opening. But John’s legs tightened around his waist and his hips bucked up, his intentions clear. So Sherlock pressed forward and didn’t stop, not when John squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath, not when the veins on John’s neck stood out, not until he could feel John’s skin against the hair around his groin and pressing firmly against his bollocks. His lungs were burning because he couldn’t breathe, but nothing could ever burn as impossibly hot as the sweet smooth _heat_ of John clamping and fluttering around his cock.

For the first time since John kissed him, they both stopped moving. Just for a moment, just for one moment, and then John opened his eyes and their eyes locked and then they were frantic again, desperately moving against each other, greedy for every bit of skin they could reach and every noise they could wring out and every shout they could capture and swallow and it was _still_ not enough, it would still _never_ be enough, they were whole worlds apart and John seemed to know it too, because he grabbed Sherlock’s arse and tightened his legs and tried to pull him deeper, and Sherlock tried to oblige him, but he knew it would never be enough.

They were both drenched in sweat and writhing frantically, trying desperately to get beneath each other’s skin, sobbing with pleasure and exhaustion and sheer frustration that they were still too far apart.

John came screaming, his body clenching around Sherlock’s so hard it hurt, and Sherlock came too, screaming John’s name and trying to press deeper, deeper, closer, _more_. . .

The burning under his skin and in his groin was dissipating, leaving Sherlock with a wrung-out sort of bubbling in its place, which was just fine with him, because John was still here. Still warm and pliant beneath him, his cock sticky and soft against Sherlock’s belly, his passage hot and shivering weakly around his own rapidly-softening cock, his arms spasming against Sherlock’s shoulders, his breath hot and harsh against Sherlock’s face as Sherlock kissed him over and over and over again.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, still just as desperate for one another as they had been before. No inch of skin was left unexplored by hands and bodies and mouths, though they kept interrupting themselves to kiss. They tried every sort of kiss they could think of, and when the kisses began to taper off and become shallow and languid Sherlock wanted to break something, to burn down the whole fucking cabin in despair, because they were both falling asleep, he could feel it, and he didn’t want to. Couldn’t sleep. John was. . . John was _leaving_ , and Sherlock was staying, and nothing would ever be _enough_ , but maybe if he had just one more kiss to remember, just one more kiss to hang on to, maybe, maybe. . .

Sherlock pressed closer, tightening his muscles as much as he was able, trying to bring John right underneath his skin. John seemed to have a similar idea, and shifted their heads on the pillows (they’d slipped underneath the covers at some point, using the much-soiled top cover to clean themselves up first) so that their lips were brushing together even when they weren’t kissing.

Neither spoke. Neither had anything to say. There was nothing to say, as two grown men lay beneath the covers in the dark and cried each other to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #notdead
> 
> If you haven't read A Telling Touch yet, now would be a good time to go and do that. It's by the wonderful lovely MiyakoToudaiji, who also beta'ed this work. I can't tell you what's going to happen, but I CAN tell you that I've already read most of it, and by God what's coming will be GOOD.

* * *

 

  
**Our souls will join up in the wild**   
**Our home in peace, and war, and death**   
_-[Creek Mary's Blood, Nightwish](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9HrxBOaBYuo)_

 

  
**Sometimes the truth just ain't enough**   
**Or it's too much in times like this**   
**Let's throw the truth away**   
**We'll find it in this kiss**   
_-[Worlds Apart, Bruce Springsteen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sT4Iw8oEKR8)_

* * *

 

Sherlock woke with a gasp. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, John---

 _John_.

John was holding him, cradled in the warmth of his arms and the solidity of his chest. Sherlock looked up at him, found deep blue eyes staring back.  Warm and hazy and every sense enveloped by John, Sherlock stared and could still see nothing but distance. His arm felt unreasonably heavy as he raised it to trace a finger against the lines beneath John’s eye.

They had each other again, slow and languid, hands gently fisting each other’s cocks, both of them still wrung out and sore from the previous night. When Sherlock abruptly came he didn’t even want to, resenting the fact that his eyes slid shut of their own accord, depriving him of even a few moments of looking at John. He forced himself to recover fast enough to focus on bringing John off, and when John finally did come, shuddering weakly in Sherlock’s arms and burying his whimpers in his throat, Sherlock didn’t miss a thing.

In the long months (happy months, glorious months; Sherlock realized the present was coloring the past but he was sure that for the rest of his life the previous eighteen months would look nothing but golden and sun-drenched with flashes of blue) they’d known each other, they’d learned that they didn’t always need to speak. There were times their grasp of each other’s languages had failed, or hadn’t been enough, and in those times they had simply remained silent. Together, but silent, until they realized that words were not always necessary to convey meaning.

So they didn’t speak after they woke. Not even each other’s names when they came. Not a word as they held each other after, waking fully and letting the sweat dry and kissing even though their lips were puffy and sore. Silence when they shifted to rise (John shifted first, by less than a second, and even though Sherlock knew it was unreasonable he couldn’t help but think John wanted him just a bit less than he wanted John because of it). Silence and strange intimacy as Sherlock pushed John back onto the bed, fetched a bucket and a cloth and the soap John had taught him to make and cleaned every inch of him, trying not to think that this may be the last time John was able to clean himself for a long while. When John rose and pushed Sherlock onto the bed to clean him in return Sherlock voiced no protest.

Silence as they slowly dressed each other, lips and dry tongues followed by clothing pulled over sleep-flushed skin; their frantic stripping of the night before played out slow and gruesomely backwards. Silence as they stood, fully clothed in the middle of the cabin, and kissed until the skin of their lips was raw, kissed until at the same instant they began walking towards the door. Silence as they tried not to pause, knowing that if they stopped and held each other for a moment they would never be able to let go; silence as Sherlock reached behind John’s broad back and opened the door; silence as they kissed one last time, truly one last time for the rest of their lives.

Silence, yes, not a word spoken, but meaning conveyed nonetheless.

They stepped back, and he was granted one last glimpse of John’s eyes before he turned away. Sherlock waited until he was beyond the threashold and closed the door.

The world froze. There was no air, no light, no time, just the wooden door in front of him in between Sherlock and the only person he’d ever loved more than himself.

Stupid. _Stupid_. Of course the door was the only thing in the way. Words couldn’t keep him from John; nor could his idiot brother, or snowstorms, or anything else the world could dream up.

Sherlock jumped forward and wrenched the door open. Had he not done so, John would have crashed into it. As it was he got the door open just in time and John (who had obviously taken a few steps before running back) flung himself at Sherlock.

They collided, chest to chest, and Sherlock’s arms automatically wrapped in a death-grip around him. He tried to speak, tried to think of words in any language that could convey what was happening, why they would always be together and nothing else mattered, but words in any language failed him. He could do nothing but hold on and try not to let go.

John’s hands clamped around Sherlock’s biceps, pulling him away. Held him at arm’s length, his fingers undoubtedly leaving bruises where they dug into the skin of Sherlock’s arms. John’s face was twisted, his eyes dark and flashing.

“Mine,” John hissed. “You. Are. _Mine_.”

Sherlock laughed, happiness and relief exploding in him like the sunrise. He twisted, violently breaking John’s hold on his arms, so he could pull John back to him. Trust John to find the only three words in any of their mutual languages that came halfway to articulating what they were to each other. Only John, his John (really his, really truly _Sherlock’s_ John) could explain them so cleverly.

Their arms were around each other again, John kicked the door shut behind him, and that was the last thought either of them had for anything that wasn’t each other. John--- wonderful John, handsome John, clever John, strong John, his _John_ \--- pushed him backwards with a noise that actually sounded like a growl. Sherlock attacked him right back, clutching at him and biting his throat. John pulled back for one moment, their gazes catching, and the fire in John’s eyes burned Sherlock’s throat to ash.

John grabbed at the edge of Sherlock’s shirt, pulling it off him so violently Sherlock fell backwards onto the bed. He didn’t waste a moment, grasping John’s hips and clawing at the deerskin that covered them. John shoved his hands away, pulling his own clothes off so quickly Sherlock barely had time to reach for his chest before John pressed his lips and his palms to Sherlock’s face, then his neck, then his chest, then dropped to his knees and ripped Sherlock’s trousers off so fast Sherlock could hear the seams splitting, but there was no time for thought because John grasped him roughly by the hips and swallowed him whole.

Sherlock cried out, doubling over and winding his arms around John’s head, hands scrabbling uselessly at the skin of his back. After coming last night, and then again less than an hour ago, Sherlock’s cock was barely able to give a half-hearted twitch against John’s tongue, but John sucked him anyway, hard, once, twice, thrice--- Sherlock jerking with the overstimulation. Then John was pushing himself up, catching Sherlock about the waist and tackling him to the bed, hauling him up until they were both fully on the mattress, John wound around him--- one hand gripping his arse, one arm around his shoulders, John’s face against his neck and John’s legs clamping around his own and John’s heart beating frantically against his chest and John’s cock feeling small and soft and safe against his hip and John’s stomach silky against his own and--- and John heavy above him and pinning him down and Sherlock held him just as tight, as tight as he possibly could, wrapped himself around John until they couldn’t pull away.

Hardly knowing what he was doing Sherlock held him fast, his right hand holding John’s face safe against his neck, his left hand rubbing slowly up and down John’s spine. He realized they were trembling.

Slowly, all the fight seemed to go out of John. He held Sherlock no less fiercely, but the tension in his muscles seeped away like snow under sunshine, his skin no longer held taut but now melding to Sherlock’s, warm and safe and. . . and _always_.

“I’ll go,” Sherlock said against John’s temple.

John shook his head, and when he spoke his lips moved against Sherlock’s collar bone, the words skittering down his chest. “I’ll stay. I’ll never leave. I’ll stay.”

“But Nightlocks. Your family.”

“They’ll live without me.” John sighed. His breath felt wonderful. “Your brother. They’ll hunt us.”

“I won’t let them.”

“I won’t leave you.”

Sherlock pulled back slightly, and John obliged him by tilting his head so they could see each other. His eyes were still so far away, still so strange and far, but growing closer.

John shrugged and said, “I’m yours.”

Sherlock smiled, and closed his eyes, and pressed his cheek to John’s forehead. “Yes. You’re mine and I’m yours. We’ll figure something out.”

So they held each other, and talked and talked, and by midday the world had rearranged itself around this new reality, this reality in which Sherlock and John were stuck together and always would be; were one fixed point in a world spinning around them.

Sherlock’s stomach rumbled and John insisted they eat something, so they sat up and leaned against each other, shoving bits of salted meat into each other’s mouths, licking the lingering traces off each other’s fingers, giggling and trying to share apple slices between them. They drank a cup of water each, but then it got messy because John smiled at Sherlock just as Sherlock brought his second cup up to his lips, and he ended up spilling it all down his chest, which led to John trying (ineffectually) to dry him with his tongue, which led to more giggles and more hands and a great deal more kissing.

They stopped before it could go any further, because they had to be _absolutely decided_ by nightfall, when John’s family would be leaving. Sooner than that, possibly, if someone came looking for him to make sure he wasn’t left behind. They talked, and lapsed into silence, and thought, and talked more, and never stopped touching each other, lest one of them realize it was a dream.

Each obstacle was laid out and examined, each bit of uncertainty laid bare, every possible solution tried and tested and discarded and rethought and tested again. At first they tried to be strong, and then they tried to be clever, and at last they simply tried to be brave. The light filtering in around the door was just beginning to turn afternoon-gold when they fell silent at last, the agreed-upon plan running through their minds.

It was a plan, yes, but it wasn’t a guarantee. It wasn’t even a chance. It was. . . It was a hope. Nothing more.

There was no telling how long the silence lasted before Sherlock turned to look at John--- turned to find his face, his expression, the solidity of his chest and the strength of his arms, anything at all that could offer reassurance, something on which to pin this feeble hope--- and met his eyes.

Both of them similar in ways they shouldn’t be, yes, similar in physicality, in body and gender. But dissimilar in everything else. They’d grown up in different places, among different peoples. Different languages. Different gods. Different morals, different lullabies, different clothes, and kings, and foods, and loves, and thoughts, and. . .

And Sherlock had thought it didn’t matter. Thought that, though he’d never ascribe to belief in anything so arcane as the soul, if souls existed his and John’s would be made of the same stuff. Thought that, beneath all the culture and words and belief and blood and skin, somewhere they were the same. He’d thought that the distance between them was because John was leaving; hadn’t realized that the distance was because they would always be apart.

They weren’t the same and never would be. Sherlock could love John all he liked, but he would never understand him.

John’s eyes were alien, but his mouth was soft and sad when he cupped Sherlock’s cheek in his hand. Sherlock’s breath caught, and John slowly--- so, so _slowly_ \--- pressed their lips together. Pulled back.

They didn’t kiss this time, Sherlock holding John as tight as he could, John above him and inside him and moving as slowly as the phases of the moon. There were no words spoken, and when Sherlock could no longer bear the _otherness_ of John’s eyes he closed his own and tipped his head back, giving in to the sensation of John’s weight atop him and John’s heat inside him and John’s heart beating against his own.

He shivered beneath John, unable to help himself, when he was struck by the knowledge that he had given himself over so completely to this man who was a stranger. John tightened his arms, pressing as deeply as he could and holding his hips still for a moment, letting Sherlock feel him all around him. He pressed their foreheads together, and when Sherlock opened his eyes he saw that John’s were closed.

It didn’t matter, though, did it? John and Sherlock were different, so unspeakably different there was no way to surmount that one single truth. But _who cared_? What did it _matter_? So that was truth; so what? They didn’t need to surmount the truth, they simply had to discard it. Brushing his thumb softly against John’s closed eye, Sherlock thought that they may be as different as salt and water, but that once salt and water were mixed there was no power on earth that could draw one from the other and leave them both in tact.

He pressed his thumb insistently against John’s cheekbone until John opened his eyes. Neither of them looked away again, mouths open and breath gasping and sharp, and when Sherlock came he saw stars.

The closer they got the further apart they knew they were. Sherlock wondered if the reverse was also true; if, when this day was over and he and John parted to carry out the separate parts of their plan, they would feel closer. He wondered what it would be like, a month from now, when he was standing atop the RicheruisseauFalls surrounded by the cavalry and waiting for just the right moment to fling himself into the void. Would they be so far apart that it felt as though John was standing with him?

Sherlock would not allow himself to think about what would happen if his calculations were wrong. If, when his body floated down the river to where John was waiting for him, he was already dead. If death was the ultimate separation, did that mean that if they died he and John would be so close they were finally the same person?

John came with a gasp, pulsing hot and hard and _alive_ inside Sherlock, his heartbeat felt under every inch of Sherlock’s skin.

It didn’t matter, Sherlock thought as he ran his fingers beneath John’s eyes. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this; nothing mattered but John.

Worlds apart and infinitely different, yes. But in love and always together and each completely given over to the other nevertheless.

 

 

 

 


End file.
